


The Village Green Preservation Society

by JantoJones



Series: Modest Briefings (The 2nd 100) [45]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18861802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya and Napoleon cause chaos in a small English village.





	The Village Green Preservation Society

**Author's Note:**

> ~I believe in what I fight for  
> And I have paid for it with pain  
> I am here because my contributions  
> May help turn this fate away  
> And all who stood by and did nothing  
> Who are they to criticise?  
> The sacrifices of others  
> Our blood has bought their lives~
> 
> ~Eye of the Storm – The Crüxshadows~

“It is magnificent, Mrs Edmondson. By next week, everything should be in perfect bloom. You and your committee are to be commended.”

“You’re so very kind, Colonel Urquhart. We could not have done it without your generous donation.”

Retired British Army colonel, George Urquhart waved away her thanks; pretending that he hadn’t done it for recognition. He and the postmistress, Cecelia Edmondson were admiring the floral display in the middle of the village green. The flowers had been made into a design which looked like a giant flower. The small English village of Little Winton was anticipating their fourth win in a row for the county’s Village in Bloom competition.

“Did you see that there is an American and another man are staying at the pub,” Mrs Edmondson stated solicitously. “I don’t know where the other man is from, but he has an accent from what I understand. I wonder what brings them here.”

“All I can garner from Bill is that they are touring the English countryside, looking for rare bird species.”

Bill was the owner of The Green Man, the village’s only pub. While it was rare to get visitors, he always had kept one room available on the off-chance.

The sound of a gunshot coming from a building on the other side of the green drew their attention away from the gossip.

“What on Earth was that?” gasped Mrs Edmondson. “It came from the Old Forge.”

“I have no idea, but I shall certainly find out.”

Like many retired military officers, who found themselves in peacetime, and with no war to fight, the Colonel had taken it upon himself to become the de-facto head of the community. Very little happened in the village that he wasn’t aware of or involved in but, thus far, the new owner of the Old Forge remained an elusive mystery.

The village was typical of its type, with many of the main buildings, such as the church and the pub, sitting around a central green. In one corner was the old blacksmith’s forge, which had fallen into disuse following the death of the man who operated it. It had stood empty for three years before being bought. The purchaser, Dorin Tomescu, was rarely seen, other than to take grocery deliveries from the shop, or packages from the postman. His name was unknown to the villagers, but he was rumoured to be ‘a foreigner’. Although nothing was known about him, he hadn’t caused any trouble as yet, so was being tolerated; for now.

The Colonel had barely begun his self-important stride across the green when the door to the Old Forge burst open, and he stopped in his tracks. Two men, who were seemingly in the middle of a brawl, tumbled out. Urquhart recognised the blond man as the non-American ‘bird-watcher’ from the pub. The other man, the owner of the building, had a knife in his hand. He was doing his level best to slash and stab the blond.

As the pair grappled, the American came out of the Old Forge, brandishing a handgun. He was clearly waiting for a chance to shoot the man with the knife, but the fight was scrappy and messy, with neither man gaining the upper hand. The Colonel and Mrs Edmondson stood, dumbfounded, as the fight continued. It was until the fighters fell onto the flowerbed that they were spurred into action.

Urquhart got as close as he could and shouted, ineffectually, for them to stop. Mrs Edmondson made her way over to the American, and demanded that he do something.

“I would if I could,” he told her. “We just have to wait until this plays out.”

Illya Kuryakin was tiring. The knife had caught him at least once and, although he didn’t think the wounds were too bad, he seemed to be losing enough blood to weaken him. If he could just get hold of the weapon, or get in one good punch, he could end things quickly. Somewhere in the periphery of his senses, Illya could hear someone yelling about flowers. As it meant nothing to him, he ignored the voice. Illya and Tomescu rolled over and over, battling for supremacy. Beneath them the beautiful flower design was crushed into the ground, with many of the flowers breaking under their weight.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Illya was able to make Tomescu drop the knife. With that problem out of the way, he smashed a fist into the man’s face. He lost consciousness instantly. Illya rolled off him and lay still; trying to get his breath back.

“Are you okay?” Napoleon Solo asked, helping his partner to his feet.

“I am fine,” Illya answered, with barely a pause.

Napoleon narrowed his eyes. Illya always claimed he was fine whenever he was hurt, but he couldn’t see any injuries. He didn’t get a chance to question him, however.

“That ornamental garden has been an award winning part of this village for almost ten years, and it had been completely obliterated by this oaf!” Colonel Urquhart roared, pointing a chubby finger at Illya Kuryakin, who merely gazed at it. 

“The loss of a few flowers is a small price to pay for. . .” Napoleon began.

“A small price!” Urquhart yelled. “The Village in Bloom competition is next week, and we were in the running to win in for the fourth year in a row.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Solo said, with a placatory tone. “But, had we not done what was needed, your lives as you know them would have ended.”

“What are you talking about, man?”

Napoleon had no wish to go over everything Tomescu had been up to, but he had to get him to calm down somehow.

“That man is a member of a group called Thrush,” he explained. “They are an international band of criminals determined to subjugate the whole of mankind to its will. Dorin Tomescu was in your village because he was planning to set up his own satrapy here. You would all have been dragged into his megalomaniacal desires.”

“That’s as maybe, but what authority do you have to come into our village and destroy it?”

Napoleon showed his ID to the man, who pompously harrumphed. He knew of U.N.C.L.E. but couldn’t believe that men such as these were agents for the organisation. The blond one especially seemed particularly uncouth.

“The village will be compensated,” Illya stated.

There was an inflection to his voice which Solo picked up on, but couldn’t quite recognise.

“Money will not compensate for having to forfeit the competition!” Urquhart blustered. “Surely you could have performed your duties without destroying half of the village. You are supposed to be professionals, but this is the height of incompetence.” 

Illya narrowed his eyes and sighed deeply.

“I am going back to the pub,” he told Napoleon, before turning, and stalking away.

Solo watched Kuryakin go. The way the Russian was walking made him suddenly realise why there had been a strange quality to his voice. Illya actually was injured. Unfortunately, he was unable to follow after him, as he still had Colonel Urquhart to deal with, and a clean-up to organise. He just had to trust that Illya would have the sense to ask for help if the injury was a bad one.

........................................................................

The pub was an ancient building, which was solidly built and had heavy oak doors. This made it all the more satisfying when Illya slammed the door to their room with a resounding boom. The room contained two elderly and creaky beds, and every item of soft furnishing was covered in little pink flowers. Napoleon had turned his nose up at when they’d first arrived, but Illya didn’t care. A bed was a bed. Solo had soon changed his mind about the room when he’d realised they could see every building around the green from the window. Even more fortuitous was that the Old Forge was directly opposite the pub. 

Stripping off his jacket, tie and holster, and dropping them onto his bed, Illya winced as the pain in his side protested at the movement. Looking down he frowned at the spreading red bloom on the white cloth of the shirt. With a lot of care, he pulled the shirt from the top of his trousers and examined his injury in the mirror. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was about four inches long. It didn’t look life-threatening yet, but it soon would be. He began to loosen buttons of the garment, but was hit with a wave of dizziness. 

“Maybe it is worse than I thought,” he muttered to himself.

He dropped onto the end of the bed, suddenly feeling extremely tired. Why did they do it? Why did _he_ do it? Admittedly, the direction of his life and career had been entirely out of his hands, but he truly did believe in the fight for which he had been volunteered. Working for U.N.C.L.E., he had come to realise that he was more than willing to sacrifice himself for others. It wasn’t something that he thought about often but, sometimes, he wondered how many lives he had paid for with his blood, and his pain.  
Glancing out of the window he could see Napoleon still working his charm on the pompous old durak (fool). Why was there always someone ready to criticise them just for doing what they could to keep them safe. That’s when the reality of it hit him.

Illya had dedicated his life to preserving the ways of life of many around the world; be it the trendy go-getters of the western cities, the traditional livelihoods of rural folk the world over, or the idyllic peacefulness of small English villages. Those flowers would have taken the time and effort of many people to come to fruition. They were not only a source of village pride, but a symbol of community. This is what he fought for. This place was entirely representative of his contribution to global security and, in their effort to save the village from a soon-to-be tyrant, they had damaged the heart of it. Unfortunately, it had been unavoidable. 

Dragging himself to his feet, Illya painfully put his holster and jacket back on. It took a while, but he finally made it back to Napoleon and the other man.

“Please accept my apologies,” he said, holding out his hand.

Colonel Urquhart accepted the hand, and explained that Mr Solo had helped him to understand what had occurred.

“I am not just apologising for the damage,” Illya continued, breathing heavily. “But also for my attitude to it. I am sorry you will be unable to enter the competition.”

“No matter, no matter,” Urquhart replied. “We’ll give someone else a crack at it and come back stronger the year after.”

“Are you okay, Tovarisch?” Napoleon asked. “You’re paler than usual. Were you injured in the fight?”

“I may have been caught by the knife,” Illya told him, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

Without warning, he found the ground coming up to meet him, and he slipped into blessed darkness.

He woke up an hour later in his bed at the pub. Napoleon was laid on the other bed reading a book he’d borrowed from Bill the landlord. He put it down when he heard his partner groan.

“This is not a hospital,” Illya commented.

“You’re observation skills were probably the reason you became a spy,” Solo answered, with a grin.

“I assume this village has a doctor.”

“Nope. But it does have a vet.”

Urquhart had sprung into action the moment Illya had collapsed. He was a man who was good at mobilising people and, within the space of twenty minutes, Illya was being stitched up in the pub, the Thrush man was being put somewhere secure to await pick-up, and a legion of people had begun work on the flowerbed. While that was happening, Napoleon was on his communicator organising transport, and requesting compensation from Waverly for the damaged flowers. 

“Vet?” Illya queried.

“There’s a doctor in the next village,” said Solo. “But he won’t get here for another hour. The vet got you cleaned up, and closed the wound. The doc is bringing antibiotics and, with a bit of luck, we’ll be out of here and back in London in around three hours.”

.....................................................................................................................

Just over week later, Illya was on light duties back in New York when Lydia from came into his office. She was part of a team who monitored worldwide news media.

“I have a news article you might be interested in,” she told the Russian. “It was in a rural English newspaper.”

Illya hadn’t read anything beyond the headline and sub-headline before a grin appeared on his face.

**Little Winton Win Village in Bloom, Despite Catastrophic Damage to Central Garden.  
Colonel George Urquhart thanks mystery benefactors for gift of replacement blooms.**


End file.
